It was 10:57 pm on Earth Day and I called home, waking up my long-suffering parents who were already snug in bed. My dad answered cheerfully, if groggily, and asked what I was up to.
“I want to know how long I should bake dirt for.” I said. “Oh,” said Dad, “I’ll ask your mother.” As he tapped her on the shoulder and told her the phone was for her, he asked “What are you baking?” “An Earth-Day cake“, I said. “Oh, good idea“, said Dad, completely unfazed.
This quick snippet of conversation tells me two things: a) that my parents are very tolerant, and b) they are used to their odd daughter’s equally odd behaviour. But they should be. After all, they raised me, and heaven knows that they’re unusual, too.
Continuing the conversation, Dad asked Mom how long I should bake dirt for. She didn’t even ask why but just answered “2o minutes at 200 degrees” – all this before Dad had even mentioned the Earth Day cake, which he did, happily, saying that it was a great improvement over mud pies.
He passed the phone to mom, after giving me quick updates about the store and the backyard and a recent outdoor show. Mom guessed what I was up to with the soil. She is famous for having a plate of dirt that sits in random places in the living room. My brother and I, used to some of the odder objects in my parents’ home (that is another series of posts entirely), had ignored this dirt plate for many months. We are only home every so often for family occasions, and the plate of dirt had been moved out of the way several times when we were preparing for special dinners. This Thanksgiving, however, marked a time when I would be meeting Mike’s new girlfriend, (although my parents had already met her and unbeknownst to me she had already visited their home) and I was helping to clean up and decorate. * Now, I didn’t want her to think we were too strange, and I wanted to avoid any unhappy accidents whereby a special guest tried to appreciate the traditional Thanksgiving fare and mistook the dirt plate for a platter of… something, ending in tragedy and humiliation for all. Besides, the dirt plate was in the way, occupying important space on the server. So, with the best of intentions, I unceremoniously dumped the dirt over the side of the porch, onto the pile of previous decomposing matter. We have a wee pile beside the porch where we dump old bouquets, dead houseplants, and the like. The dirt ended up here, and its plate went into the dishwasher. I continued festooning. **
Mom was very upset.
As it turns out, that dirt was important. That dirt had purpose. It was meant for something bigger. As it turns out, I had interfered with dirt destiny.
* It is never a real holiday unless I drag in some greenery and festoon everything. Mike says he doesn’t like decorations but I know that secretly, deep down he loves my festive garlands.
** This includes traversing large tracts of land, trimming greenery from various locations around Powassan. On this occasion I not only went into the woods behind our place, but also took the dog with me up the Powassan mountain to Glendale Heights, and up another way into The Pines, collecting branches of coloured leaves and garlands of evergreens. I later complained that my large vase was TOO SMALL, and Krizsanta observed that my solution to this problem was to cram MORE, not LESS, into the vase. It was spectacular.
